A/N: Well, it's certainly a relief to get this chapter out of the way. I gave myself a bit of a headache writing it, too. That might also have been the Moulin Rouge Soundtrack 2 up full volume though…in any case, I really do need feedback from this chapter, because the next one is going to be just as had to write. Your comments really help; don't be afraid to criticize! I know most of you aren't :P

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Chapter 8 –Things Best Forgotten

The tears continued to flow; endless, wracking sobs that echoed through the cold dungeon.

Snape was close to panicking. The girl was curled into a foetal position, the desperate cries nearly choking her as she struggled to breathe through the onslaught of tears. With shaking hands, he fumbled in his drawer for something, anything, that might calm her. His long, slender fingers found nothing save half a dozen quills and a small vial labelled Midnight Hour Eye-Widener. Cursing, he strode to her side, but then hesitated. His experiences with women were limited, and never had he been required to console one so distraught.

Uncertainly, he dropped his hand to her shoulder. As soon as he made contact she started violently, as though his fingers were charged and colder than ice. Hermione retreated further into herself, the sobs turning to small, staggered hiccups and she began to shiver. Snape took his cue and went to find a blanket, but upon second thoughts, decided against leaving her. Instead he removed his heavy cloak and placed it around her; the shivers increased briefly, but passed when he moved away. He considered alerting Dumbledore but quickly dismissed the idea, partly out of guilt for his own actions, mostly out of concern for Hermione. He did not like the idea of leaving her alone in this condition while trying to find the elusive Headmaster. The idea of explaining to Dumbledore how she had come to be in this state was not pleasant, either.

So he remained sitting stiffly and silently opposite her, waiting for some sign of awareness. There was nothing else he could do. Terrible thoughts flooded his mind and he ignored them all, subconsciously refusing to consider them. His attention was concentrated on the student huddled in front of him, oblivious to his focus on her.

When she seemed to have calmed, however slightly, the shivers subsiding and the sobs growing less violent, he spoke her name quietly. "Miss Granger. Hermione. Can you hear me?" When she failed to respond the thoughts again crashed against his mental barrier, a restless wave of doubt threatening to sweep away the breakwater in his mind. "Miss Granger, talk to me. Are you in pain?"

Slowly, ever so slowly, she raised her head. Her face was unnaturally white, almost grey, and the level of anxiety he saw there, etched into her otherwise gentle features, alarmed Severus. She was looking at him, but not seeing him. Her eyes were wide and hollow, and he could see the grief staining the dark irises. He began to wonder then, if the potion hadn't gone awry as he had suspected. Perhaps, perhaps this was what she had been hiding from.

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After swallowing the concoction, Hermione glared at Snape, who seemed to be quite amused. A flicker of hope sparked in her mind when she realised she might be wrong, maybe there was no memory charm. Maybe she was just paranoid. She could see how she would have come to the conclusion, though. All her symptoms added up to the common side affects of memory loss, depression, confusion, and an unmistakeable vagueness about events recent to the casting of the charm. The one thing she was definitely confused about though, was just who had cast the memory charm. It was so aggravating, having no recollection of the event but suspecting it based on her own character. Had she really been so depressed that she would have cast such a charm on herself? No, even though depression did strange things to the mind, she would never have even considered…

Her head began to feel strangely light, and for a moment time seemed to falter. She stood at the brink of an abyss, staring down into the deep, dark of the unknown. For the moment, she didn't dare breathe for fear of falling, but the air around her seemed to compress and shrink, forcing her forward until she finally lost her balance and was thrown into the nothingness.

It began to close in around her as she continued her freefall into her subconscious. She tried to scream, but it was too fast, surrounded her and flooding her entire being with memories, seeping into her eyes, ears, nose, mouth. Hermione watched helplessly, as glimpses of her life flashed in her mind in no apparent order. In what might have been hours, she saw her entire life played out in random moments. She began to sob, partly in terror, but also in anticipation of what she knew would come next.

And then it was silent. No more visual theatrics that engulfed her mind, no more overwhelming memories, just the simple knowledge that she knew would haunt the rest of her days.

She knew.

The sound of her own cries filled her consciousness, a desperate, choking sob that threatened to drain away all her emotions and leave her with nothing; to leave just the shell, the part of her that knew nothing of pain and grief, and remorse.

Something touched her, out of the darkness, and she screamed without making a sound. It was happening again, no, she couldn't let it happen again. Hermione began to tremble with anxiety, until one shiver overlapped the next and her whole body was engaged in a continuos tremor.

Slowly, she became aware of something, someone, standing over her, and, overcome with terror, she began to choke on her own tears. When something warm and heavy was thrown over her, the convulsions began again with renewed vigour.

After a while, the consistent shuddering became more staggered and infrequent, and she could almost see through the red haze clouding her vision. A voice was calling her, a familiar voice, and she struggled to identify the sound. It called again, and in one last effort she lifted her lead-weighted head to face the owner of voice.

A dark figure was before her. It said, firmly but unmistakeably worriedly, "Miss Granger, talk to me. Are you in pain?"

She groaned, taken so sharply back to the present. The combination of fresh memories and old ones was too much for her, and the tears returned.

"Do you wish to speak about it?"

She stared up at the face, normally so cold and indifferent, now the only familiar sight she had from which to draw strength. Swallowing the sobs, Hermione managed to mumble only a few words before being consumed by sorrow. "Malfoy," she spoke, thickly, "My parents. I…" Her voice became unintelligible, the words heavily accented with anguish.

Snape was relieved, but only slightly. So it was about her parents. But why the memory charm, if Neffler was right, and she had been getting over it? "Miss Granger, it is generally best to get it off your chest. It wont seem as bad." He realised his mistake as soon as he said it. Her sobbing doubled, and only when she was again in control did she reply, however painfully and arduously.

"I…I killed them."